


The Library

by Dulcamatrix



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-21
Updated: 2019-01-21
Packaged: 2019-10-14 02:57:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17500262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dulcamatrix/pseuds/Dulcamatrix
Summary: Dumbledore and Professor Snape must deal with a battle that is raging on the other side of the library doors. Snape steels himself and prepares himself for war. Once the doors open, he gallantly runs through only to find himself amid a battle so foreign he has to use unconventional and unusual measures to win.





	The Library

 

 

 

 

The owl read:

URGENT  
Severus,  
Your presence is requested immediately in the library.  
Do not dawdle, as time is of the essence.

Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore

The potions master wasted no time, and tucking his wand in his sleeve, bolted to his study door in a swish of black cape

Images of curse throwing Death Eaters and fugitive dementors infiltrating school grounds put a quick in the potion master’s step. By the time he rounded the corner to see the headmaster standing worriedly outside the library doors he was nearly out of breath.

“Where are they Albus?” He declared, whipping out his wand and throwing furtive glances about. Dumbledore looked upset indeed.

“Thank Merlin you are here!” The relief upon the headmaster’s face was immediate. “It’s awful! Awful I say! Severus, I do not know what to do. They are just the nastiest things to deal with.” Dumbledore twitched a nod at the closed wooden doors of the library.

The doors were vibrating, pulsating even, with a bulge outwards every few seconds or so. There was a thunderous crash on the other side and the two professors jumped in agitation, both wielding their wands towards the loud sound.

“What do you need of me Albus?” Composed now, the potions master was every bit in warrior mode. He was here to do his part, to banish evils from the hallowed halls of Hogwarts. His already strict posture heightened a few more millimeters. His eyes did not leave the shuddering doors.

The headmaster replied ominously, “I am afraid you must help me to contend with what is on the other side of these doors Severus. Do you think you can handle this?”

“Of course.”

“Here’s the plan then… on the count of three I will open the door and we will rush in for battle. “ He immediately began counting, “ONE…”

Snape steeled his back and narrowed his eyes, wand at the ready. And then a random thought. “Albus?”

But the headmaster was caught up in the situation at hand. “TWO…” And he reached for the door.

“Albus… what are we battling exactly?” But it was too late.

“THREE!” Dumbledore yelled and threw open the door.

In an act of sheer gallantry, Snape rushed in first, jabbing his wand forward in a furious swish and flick.

“STUP—” He cut off his curse in mid-word.

Still in mid jab-position, arms akimbo, and not moving an inch, his black eyes slowly surveyed the scene in front of him. There in the library, staring back at him in mild amusement, were seventeen sets of five-year-old eyes.

There was a slam and a click behind him.

The traitorous voice from the other side of the door announced, “They’ve got wands Severus! Do be careful!” And with that the headmaster took flight.

The room was a disaster. Children were hanging from bookshelves and standing on all surfaces other than the floor. Books were dislodged from shelves and scattered every which way. Pages from less fortunate books were airborne, fluttering gracefully to the ground, covering table and floor alike. In the corner there were two grubby munchkins trying to stuff a screeching pixie into an empty inkpot. The potions master began to realize the severity of his predicament.

“Mister you look stupid.”

Snape slowly lowered his arms, removing himself from his combatant pose, his gaze zeroing in on the little twit. Tucking his wand safely in his sleeve, he crossed his long arms in front of him and leveled to his full, menacing stature.

“And you have bogeys hanging from your filthy snout.”

This did not go over well.

Suddenly the professor found himself at the receiving end of several badly thrown childish hexes. He gracefully ducked spell-propelled spitballs and library books.

This is preposterous he thought as he stood his ground, black cape swirling about him menacingly. He raised his arms and bellowed, “You are to stop this infernal racket this instant!” To his immediate approval, all went deafeningly silent. “Now I must insist you hand over those wands immed—”

With a great cry, seventeen smudged little urchins charged him, taking him down in a magical minute. Several produced rope from the end of their contraband wands and bound his arms and legs. This, he was not prepared for.

When the gag appeared he knew he had to take quick action.

“What about a story?” He tersely offered from his bound and immobile position. All activity ceased. He had their attention.

“What kinda story mister?”

He was at a total loss. He never engaged in storytelling once in his life. What in Merlin’s name do you tell a five year old? He furrowed his brow. “One about a… er… some…” His answer came from a chocolate smeared girl standing above him to his left.

“Bunnies.”

Bunnies? Sure he knew stories about bunnies… ones that included cooking temps and savory spices.

“And butterflies,” she added.

Bunnies and butterflies were definitely not his forte. “What about bats? Bats are brilliant, no?”

Maybe he could talk them into something he at least knew about.

“I want bunnies.” The child was now aiming a finely carved beech wood wand right between his eyes, inches from his face.

“Would that be brown bunnies or white?”

 

Several minutes later the potions master found himself sitting on a miniature chair fit for a garden gnome, surrounded by a circle of expectant five-year olds. A fine predicament this was. Shifting uncomfortably on the small wooden seat he glared at the munchkin army before him. Headmaster be damned. He was going to roast Dumbledore on a spit for this. He continued to glare.

“What about the bunnies mister?”

“What about them?”

He was met with indignant stares. “Mister, we have wands…” Several of the children raised theirs threateningly.

“Well so do I.” He reached into his sleeve. Only to find it empty.

“You looking for this?” One particularly repulsive child in the back held up a lovely teak wand. His wand.

Thoughts of several tow-headed five-year olds bubbling in a doublewide cauldron filled his head.

Through clenched teeth Snape set in motion his bunny tale. “Mr. Bunny was hopping. Yes, that’s it. Hopping along a trail in the wood…” Immediately he was interrupted.

“Diddles.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“His name is not Mr. Bunny. It’s Diddles.”

Snape dropped his head and pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration. Gawds, he loathed children. Sighing he began again.

“Diddles the bunny was hopping along a trail in the wood,” he decided to kill two woodland creatures with one stone, and in a brilliant flash of imagination threw in the butterflies, “and came across his friends the butterflies.” Wanting this whole shoddy story thing over, he rushed the next few sentences and finished with a lackluster, “And they had a party for Mrs. Diddles and all was well. The end. May I have my wand back?” He stood up and held out his hand expectantly.

“What were their names?”

“Pardon?”

“The butterflies… what were their names?”

Names? They wanted names for the damned butterflies? They were bloody well lucky he didn’t tell the alternate version of the Mr. Diddles story where a backhoe came in, bulldozed the wood and put up a “Crispy Woodland Creature with Chips Shop.”

“Tom and Jerry.”

“There was more than two butterflies mister. Everyone knows butterflies party in packs.”

He sat back down with a scowl, his knees up by his chin. “And just how many butterflies are in a pack?”

“Forty-seven.”

“What!” He bellowed, rising to his feet once again.

This was mad. He was not naming forty-seven partying butterflies. He had toads to powder and roots to grind. There were glass jars to be washed. Students to threaten. Finding himself at wits end, he resolutely came to the conclusion that desperate times call for desperate measures.

“YOU…” he jabbed a finger at the grub with his wand. “Hand me my wand immediately!” And then lunged at the boy.

 

Exactly how a five-year old knows how to say, never mind perfectly produce a Levicorpus spell was a new one on Snape, but nonetheless several dreadful minutes later he found himself in the air, unceremoniously hanging upside-down and monotonically reciting butterfly names.

“… And Romilda and Gladys and Thomas and… how many was that?”

“Twenty-two.”

With a grimace he continued. “And Florence and Walter and…” he was running out of names. There was one name he hadn’t used yet.

“And Severus…”

“That’s a stupid name. That one doesn’t count.”

Of course not.

Out of sheer desperation he offered, “Well let’s just say I Avada Kedavra’d the remaining twenty-three?”

“You can’t kill butterflies! That’s mean!” Below him several children started to cry.

Bollocks… anything but blubbering. A moment of brilliance struck him yet again.

“How about I tell you a nursery rhyme?”

“With butterflies?”

Please. No more butterflies. “How about a witch?”

There was low rumble of approval among the children and suddenly he found himself hurtling to the floor. He stood and haughtily brushed himself off.

“What’s the witches’ nam…”

“Matilda.” He pulled that one from his arse. Without waiting for a barrage of questions pertaining to Matilda’s age, middle name and sexual orientation, Snape launched into his first ever off the cuff poetry reading.

 

 _“There was an old lady with warts on her head_  
_She was hated by townsfolk and one day woke up dead._

 _Murdered in bed by rioting residents_  
_Who thought her a witch and did fear her presence._

 _A fork in her eye and frogs in her hair_  
_The townsfolk had struck with not thought nor a care._

 _Striking her dead as she slept, so heartless and cruel..._  
_The moral you ask? Rid yourself of the warts you idiot fool!”_

 

Snape smirked proudly to himself. Damned good rhyme if he ever heard one. Dead witches indeed, bloody great plot content… And then the wailing returned. Tears. Buckets of them. .

“What!?” He looked around perplexedly. “What’s wrong?”

“My mummy’s a WITCHHHHH!” one child wailed.

“So is MINE!”

The howling showed no hint of subsiding. One particularly small child ran up to him, face full of snot, wrapped her arms tightly around his legs and buried her blubbering face in his meticulously pressed trousers. Bogeys and all. Bugger-eyed and hunched in bewilderment, Snape reached down with a halting hand and awkwardly patted the waif on her back. He began to look around hopefully for an escape route.

Then like a battering ram, the library doors barged open and there were the parents.

“What the blaze is going on here?” One particularly plump mother in pink questioned alarmingly. “Why is my child CRYING?!”

“Ah, well…”

Parents poured into the room, searching for their particular tearstained child.

“What’s wrong diddums?”

“That man kills butterflies and WITCHES!” And every adult head swiveled Snape’s way. A muscle in his cheek twitched and suddenly a plethora of parents dove in his direction. Many swinging handbags.

Snape dislodged himself from the child around his leg, snatched his wand back and hastily beat out a retreat, trying to look as superior possible while dodging handbags and crying kids. Give him Death Eaters and dementors over children and butterflies any day. Lesson learned.


End file.
